


The Righteous Storm

by TemporalWarlock



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Caring Harry, Heir of Morgana Harry, Powerful Harry, Protective Harry, Umbridge gets whats coming to her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TemporalWarlock/pseuds/TemporalWarlock
Summary: A different harry finds evidence of Umbridge's torture on another student, and promptly teaches the vile woman a lesson.Powerful Harry, descriptions of magic and it's potential, Harry being dramatic.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 153





	The Righteous Storm

The day everything changed started out like any other – as they are so often do. Breakfast was eaten by tired teenagers, with many a student worrying about some piece of homework or another. Some read, ignoring their cereal in favour of self study (this was, admittedly, mostly the Ravenclaw table), whilst others ate rigidly, not allowing a single emotion to show over polite morning conversation (as you might imagine, this was the Slytherin table). Unusually, or perhaps not so, the first years were somewhat fearful for this new day, for a reason that no one would realise, until the damage was done.

Lunch was just the same, although it was now met with furious quills scratching on parchment as some desperately attempted to do their assignment that they’d been putting off to the last moment, whilst some Sixth and Seventh years relished their lesser timetable, since they happened to get Tuesday afternoons off. This meal passed equally uneventfully, bar an exploding water goblet on behalf of Dean Thomas (a standard event that didn’t warrant much notice).

Dinner that day would go down in the history books however, under a heading titled _‘The Righteous Storm’_.

\------

After claiming a headache to his ‘friends’, Harry could be found almost alone in the Grffindor common room, a book of advanced Runes open on his lap, whilst a notebook rested on the arm of his chair, muggle pen writing notes by itself. It was one of the blissful moments where Harry could nurture his academic side, without Ron’s jealousy/ attempted to skive off work, and Hermione’s belief that her answer to things was the only answer.

The part of him – the small little first year part that had cried on his first night at Hogwarts, because he had finally made a friend – felt guilty at his thought process, since it wasn’t exactly their fault he had hid his natural self behind what people wanted to see.

But after Voldemort’s return last year, Harry realised that his life might be coming to an end sooner than he would like, and so he swore to himself to live how he wanted – regardless of what people wanted from him.

He had left the purple-faced Vernon Dursley at the train station that last summer, and had headed straight to Gringotts to see what money he had; it turned out to be a lot.

A hell of a lot.

As in he could probably buy the UK and have change left over.

The goblins had turned out to be a rather humourful race, whose wit and sharp tongue Harry soon appreciated – and with many a meeting spent going over his holdings and investments, he had rapidly become the goblin’s favourite client. It helped he treated them as sentient, intelligent beings of course.

But their involvement was merely the catalyst for the Harry Potter that now sat in Gryffindor Tower, two weeks into his fifth year at Hogwarts.

He had grown (finally) through liberal doses of nutrient and vitamin-enriched potions, undoing the years of neglect suffered during his live at the Dursleys’, finally reaching a decent height of 5’8”, far above the 5’1” he had been at the start of the summer. Magic could do miracles, but he’d been told it was unlikely he’d grow to be over 6 foot.

Yet finally having nutrients in his body – a healthy body- meant his hours spent working out and playing quidditch resulted in a broad, muscle-toned body that he was rather proud of, and whilst his height wouldn’t be intimidating, his quiet strength would be enough to make people question challenging him in a fist-fight. But that wasn’t even the best of the changes.

For a child who had never owned his own belongings, not even the clothes on his back, Harry had spent hours buying clothes. In doing so, he had found a style all of his own, and had already received many appreciative glances because of it.

Black denim skinny jeans, with a white shirt and dark-grey waistcoat were his school attire, stretching the uniform guidelines to their maximum (not that he cared). Dragonhide boots (made from freely given dragon leather) reached mid-thigh, matching the belt around his waist, from which a pouch or two hung; both were bottomless, and contained between them his school books and some emergency items, just in case. He had grown his hair after discovering his metamorphmagus ability, allowing it to now fall in soft waves. His lack of glasses (thank you goblin healers), stood out in his pale face, their green glow seemingly amplified by the magic that thrummed under his skin. In one ear, a hanging earing – the end of which being one of Hedwig’s smaller features, bathed in silver – allowed him to amplify sounds and translate information from other languages.

Hogwarts hadn’t known how to react to their ‘saviour’, and he had only been approached in these two weeks by a few people; Hermione and Ron, thinking everything was going to stay as it was, Neville, who complimented him on his summer growth, and a Ravenclaw girl by the name of Luna, who Harry quickly grew rather fond of.

At any rate, this information had little impact on the events that were about to occur; but one needed to know just what kind of man Harry Potter no was, in order to understand what was about to occur.

He was no longer weak.

He was no longer fate’s whipping boy.

And he sure as hell wasn’t playing anyone’s games.

Yet it was his relaxed figure, calmly reading whilst sipping a cup of tea and making notes, that acted as the point of change.

For one of the new first years, the smallest amongst them, came down into the common room, small face tense in sniffles, clear tear-tracks making their way down her face.

She was on her way to dinner, since that’s where everyone else was, although her journey was stopped.

‘Hey, you alright?’ Harry had said, looking up from his book towards the little girl. Upon her silence, he closed the book and wandlessly moved it into one of the expandable pouches on his belt, followed son after by the notebook.

‘Come and sit with me’ he kept his features warm as he gestured to the mirrored armchair, that sat in front of one of the grand fireplaces in the common room.

She shuffled in place, before going over to sit – her legs were not even long enough to reach the floor.

‘What’s wrong?’ Harry’s voice, as soft a feather down, visibly relaxed the girl, once sleeves were stretched over her hands, covered in a mix of snot and tears.

‘Hurts’ the girl said, giving Harry very little to go off.

‘What does?’

She shook her head, a fresh wave of tears no coming, a sob catching in her throat almost painfully. At a lack of what to do, Harry moved from his chair and knelt in front of the girl, opening his arms to her – they were quickly filled, with the girl clutching his waistcoat almost desperately. His arms came around and rested gently on her upper back, patting them even as he made gentle shushing sounds.

Five minutes of this almost-silent support before the girl’s sobs stopped racking her body, reduced to quiet sniffles.

‘There we are, now can you tell me what hurts?’ Harry desperately hoped it wasn’t something private, but if that were the case, he’d see to it she got to Madam Pomfrey.

A smile whimper and a barely there shake of the head, making Harry sigh.

‘What’s your name little one?’

‘Abigale Sir, Abigale Zambini’ the name tickled a memory in Harry’s mind, before the face of the Slytherin in his year came to the forefront.

Looking at the girl, he could see the resemblance; the beginnings of high cheekbones, dark hair, and sun-kissed skin. She’d grow up to break a few hearts, just as her brother was currently (if rumour could be believed).

‘Well then, Abigale Zambini – why don’t you point to what hurts, and I’ll see if I can help you – you don’t have to say anything’ she nodded after a moment, before pointing with her right hand to her left wrist, covered by her sleeve.

‘May I have a look Abigale?’ she nodded, although turned away as he gently held her wrist and moved the sleeve up.

Etched into her very skin, as if carved, was a simple sentence.

_I belong to the Ministry_.

Bile mixed with venomous rage settled in Harry’s stomach faster than he could think, and it took a great deal of willpower to keep his voice as soft as it had been.

‘Was this Umbridge?’ he asked, to which she nodded.

‘Why?’ he hadn’t expected her to answer, but showing the wound had apparently loosened her tongue.

‘She wanted us to spy on you sir, I’m not sure about the others, but I said no – she gave me a detention before dinner, and made me write liens with… with that Sir’ her voice trembled, stuttering over certain words, yet Harry understood clear as day.

‘Us? The other first years as well?’

Abigale nodded.

‘I was the last one to see her Sir’

‘That’s enough Sir, I’m just Harry – now head down to dinner, I promise you I’ll sort this out, in the meantime, hold out your wrist.’ Harry flicked his wrist towards his belt, where a small vial came shooting out of one of his pouches. A label, written in elegant script, shown the bottle to contain _Dittany_.

A few drops, and the wound closed – although a scar would remain. Abigale let out a shuddering breath at the pain receding, before hugging Harry and going on her way to dinner.

Harry didn’t move from his spot until she left the room.

It started out small, the fire in the grate rising higher and higher in it’s hearth, until it became a column of flame in it’s bed. Sconces around the room flared high and bright, before suddenly extinguishing – along with the fireplaces. Seconds passed as an invisible gust gathered int the room, and where orange flames had been but moments prior, green flames sprung up – just as hot, but significantly more powerful. A tremor began at his feet, stretching out to encompass the entirety of Hogwarts.

Harry’s mind during all of this was caught up in knowledge that the little girl – and who knows how many others – had been practically tortured for being loyal to him, or for whatever other reason the pink bitch thought of. McGonagall, in a different timeline, would have told him to keep his head down, to not incite the wrath of the ministry.

This Harry Potter however would not simply sit as innocents – children! – were punished in such a manner.

In the distance, the rumble of storm clouds began.

\----------

Dinner began as most did; the feasting of hungry students after a day practicing and learning the intricacies of magic. Yet there was a dark undertone to the students gathered; if you knew where to look, you could see some students shooting murderous stares at a pink-dressed professor, whilst other scratched and soothed their wrists in equal measure.

That was until the meal reached the dessert course.

The first odd thing was the sudden arrival of a Gryffindor first year, who looked decidedly worse for wear, but equally relieved. Those at Gryffindor in the know shot the girl worried glances, whilst across the room, her older brother attempted to catch her eye – she had been distant as of late.

Puddings in all shapes and sizes had barely appeared on the table before it began.

Dumbledore, and the more magically sensitive of the staff and students, paused in their movements, many just as they were about to taste their first bite of pudding. A slight rattling began, distant to the ears before increasing in both pitch and depth; it originated from the many bronze plates and bowels on the tables, all rattling as one.

It took but a second for the masses to realise that it wasn’t some enchantment on the tableware, since they too felt a tremble shoot up their spine from the wooden benches they were sat upon.

Dumbledore shot Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout a look as the trembling stopped, the unasked question of ‘wtf?’ echoing in each of their minds as if they could communicate it telepathically. For Hogwarts was built on magical ley lines, spelled to prevent earthquakes and the like from occurring – whatever it was, it didn’t originate from the magics of the Earth.

It was then that the magically-enchanted celling, that had previously showed a clear, starry night, began to cloud over. Thick, black storm clouds rolled over it’s surface like the tide over sand, accompanied by a light breeze of wind. Many students, particularly Ravenclaws, were curious about this, since ‘Hogwarts: A History’ clearly stated that the celling didn’t actually become the weather, but only replicated it.

A resounding _CRACK_ reverberated around the hall, it’s origin unknown but nonetheless startling staff and student alike. Torches around the room burst into flame before settling, only this time becoming a flickering green – it’s odd light making the shadows to the Great Hall longer than they had ever seemed before.

Dumbledore had by this point stood, although words failed him at the sight of the many green-flamed torches, only nodding at Snape’s comment;

‘the flames of Morgana Le Fay’ it was said in an awed whisper, but in the sudden silence of the room, it carried to the ears of all those gathered.

A bolt of lightning from the enchanted roof flashed in the room, a rumble of thunder carrying straight after.

And there, in the arch made by the open doors to the Great Hall, stood a vengeful spirit.

At least, that’s what many thought.

A cloak of starlight fluttered behind him each step he took into the room, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor, as if trying to outmatch the roll of thunder itself. Eyes of green flame shone in the darkened hall, with many in the central aisle recoiling at the sheer _venom_ in their gaze. Yet his stare was not aimed at them; no, in the enter walk through the Great Hall, each step measured and _almost_ slow, his gaze was fixed on one woman only.

Many had at this point realised it was Harry Potter walking amongst them, but their flight/fight instinct kept them from even breathing loud enough to draw this bitter god’s attention.

Materialising in his hand, a gauntlet once worn by knights of old appeared – to which he threw in front of the sitting Dolores Umbridge.

And as Harry spoke, the flames danced in the hall, and his voice carried a feeling of dread for those gathered; not for themselves, but for the person foolish enough to insight the man’s wrath.

‘By the Ancient Rites of Magic, I challenge you to a duel; accept, or face the wrath of Magic herself’ as if in agreement, the sky shone one more with lightning, and the torches around the room grew tall.

Rising from her seat, Dolores Umbridge looked down at the student daring to challenge her – this was helped by the raised dais that the staff sat upon, since otherwise she’d come up to his shoulders.

‘Who are you, boy, to challenge your betters, hmm?’ foolishly, she believed this little stunt to be an attempt of Dumbledore’s to scare her off, but no! she would call his bluff and defeat his little golden boy, and show the world how much better the Ministry was.

She was a fool not to look over at Dumbledore, who was deathly pale, and looked almost fearful _on her behalf_.

‘Accept the challenge, or die’ beneath Harry, the stone cracked, sending smaller fractures across the hall from his standing point.

‘Very Well, I accept – and I shall demonstrate the power of the Ministry whilst doing so!’

Harry’s gaze seemed to only sharpen, but he nodded, as what was required once the other accepted the rite of duel.

‘Since we lack a dueller’s ring, you will meet me on the Quidditch Pitch, in one hour.’ Not giving her a chance to rearrange the time, or indeed say anything, Harry’s body was consumed in a flare of green flame. It rose in the hall as if attempting to reach the roof itself; and just as suddenly as it started, he was gone.

The torches in the room melted back to their warm-orange flame, only the cracked stone floor and the thunderstorm above reminding all those gathered as to what occurred.

‘Goodbye Dolores’ Professor Snape said, face pale even for his normal ghostly hue. It was a sentiment felt by many in the room.

But what was the most disconcerting, out of everything, was that Severus Snape looked scared.

As did Albus Dumbledore.

\------------

Through unspoken agreement, the entirety of the Hogwarts staff and student populace gathered in the stands of the Quidditch pitch. In the hour until the duel took place, somehow other guests had made their way to Hogwarts – the entirety of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, headed by Lucius Malfoy, a few Aurors, and hells, even the Minister of Magic – who looked gleeful, probably imagining how his friend Dolores Umbridge was about to show up the boy-who-lived.

Somehow even reporters were on the scene, with Luna Lovegood and her father happily chatting, as if this were a regular occurrence.

Throughout the whole hour, Harry had stood fifteen paces away from the centre of the Quidditch pitch, looking up at the rumbling clouds still gathering overhead with a thoughtful look.

When Umbridge appeared from the other end of the Quidditch pitch, he removed the invisibility cloak from his shoulders – it had taken on the appearance of starlight as he wore it, as if millions of twinkling stars had been sown into it’s very fabric. He was at a loss to explain it, but it was handy to make a dramatic exit earlier. Apparation was blocked at Hogwarts of course, so turning invisible when surrounded by flames was the best.

The cloak swished into one of the pouches on his belt, it’s smooth flowing fabric disappearing in the pouch’s depths.

‘Under Ancient Magical Law, I call forth a neutral party to establish the battleground’ Harry’s voice rang out in the now silent stands. With a sudden crack, Lucius Malfoy found himself facing the two.

He obviously knew why – Umbridge was little more than a pink-clad maggot to him, and Harry Potter was a bitter adversary of his; he truly favoured neither one nor the other.

‘Cast the spells Lucius’ Potter’s use of his first name both rattled and infuriated him, but he found himself unable to talk, let alone sneer.

‘The spells have come back negative – there is no magic active at this time’ he said, as was the way of ancient magical duel; it had been centuries since one was last carried out, but the wording was hammered into every Pureblood child from birth.

Which begged the question, how did Harry Potter know?

Job done, another crack saw Lucius Malfoy back in his seat, leaving the pitch to Umbridge and Harry.

‘Don’t make too much noise when you loose hmm?’ Dolores said, raising her wand in a duelling pose (both Snape and Flitwick grimaced, for the footwork was in all ways wrong).

Harry didn’t dignify her with a response.

Above the two, a golden ‘5’ appeared.

And began to count down.

_4_

_3_

_2_

_1_

_0_ – quicker than anyone would have expected, Umbridge’s wand swished, and her verbal ‘ _incarcerous_ ’ spilled from her lips.

Thick cords of rope shot out of her wand, heading to Harry at blinding speed. Harry flicked his wrist.

Green flames ate at the rope in milliseconds.

By the time it would reach Harry, the rope was reduced to ash.

It was at this moment, Dolores Umbridge realised she might have made a mistake.

Kudos to her, she wasn’t going down without a fight – even if to onlookers, it would become more like a desperate struggle to survive.

Fire shot from her wand, turning green in Harry’s vicinity and harmlessly lcikig his skin before dispersing. Conjured daggers were deflected by a shield, whilst her admittedly complicated attack of conjured cats possessing silver claws and teeth was turned into snakes, who hissed their apologies at Harry before going on their way.

And so she continued, increasingly getting out of breath.

Harry still hadn’t drawn his wand.

This fact rattled Dolores, and uncaring as to the audience, she fired a spell.

_‘Crucio!’_ , the vicious word fell from her slips with a snarl, the bubbling black of the spell heading straight for Harry’s chest.

Shouts of outrage rang up through the stands at the use of an unforgiveable, and yet Harry didn’t panic.

Time seemed to slow, and Harry’s hands became bathed in golden fire, dripping from his hands like water for all that they would burn a normal man. These hands became to rest just in front of him, as if he were holding an invisible football between them.

The rage-filled spell flew to him, yet didn’t make contact.

And his eyes shone gold.

The golden magic swirled around the black magic that came into contact with it, and for all those gathered, they would claim that day Harry Potter had held a black hole in his hands.

He brought them slowly together, the golden light burning through the black magic as if it were but parchment to a candle. When his hands clapped together, a wave of golden mist exploded out of him, knocking Dolores to her knees.

Her wand clatter silently on the grass beneath her, and all of a sudden, it felt as if she couldn’t move a single muscle in her body.

Finally, Harry brought out his wand.

‘ _Avis’_ he said, pointing his wand to the storm clouds above. Hundreds of ravens were conjured from the one spell, flying upwards and circling the pitch as if ready to dive down and claim their prey.

‘ _Vera Verto Maxima’_ he intoned with a complicated series of wand movements. A burst of white light saw the ravens turned into floating crystal goblets, suspended in the air as if they flew themselves.

_‘Reducto’_ the spell hit the first glass in the sky before ricocheting and splitting, shattering each goblet in the sky until the heavens were filled with sharp glass, reflecting the light from the magically-lit pitch as if shamelessly imitating stars.

Dolores could only watch this distantly, as if watching through a screen.

‘Dolores Umbridge, do you admit to using a Blood Quill on Hogwarts students, in violation of the Hogwarts Staff Charter, the Hogwarts Charter, the Goblin Accords of 1581, and International Law?’ gasps went up around the pitch as many students clutched their wrist.

Feeling returned to her mouth and throat, but only the truth would pass through her lips.

‘I did’

Outrage, particularly from the board of Governors and the Aurors watching on.

The journalists wrote aggressively and quickly.

Minister Fudge looked green.

Dumbledore, and the rest of the staff, seemingly aged ten years – such was the weight of their guilt at not discovering such acts.

‘Dolores Umbridge, do you admit to giving unjust detentions and punishments to those truly innocent?’

‘I did’

‘Did you act alone?’

‘yes’

‘Why did you go to such lengths?’

‘I was instructed to use any means necessary to ensure Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore would be kept in check’

‘Who by?’

‘Cornelius Fudge’

Outrage once again as murderous looks flew to the visiting minister, who at this point, saw his upcoming job-loss as clearly as any seer.

‘What was your motivation for the recent creature laws passed in the ministry?’

The interrogation – for that’s what it had become – took a different air, as if Harry had always meant for this moment to occur.

This wasn’t simply to protect the students, even if that’s what caused the moment.

It was so much more.

‘They’re animals! Fit only to serve and die to us, like any cattle should!’

Harry’s eyes took on a darker shade, and all those watching felt a chill up their backs.

‘Do you know who sent Dementors after me this past summer, and ended up removing the souls of three muggles?’ Harry of course hadn’t been in Surrey over the holidays, but he had his sources.

Mostly angry letters from Dubledore and his little ‘order’.

‘Yes’

‘Who sent them?’

‘Myself, under instructions to make Harry Potter break a Ministry law over the summer holidays’

‘by whom?’ even though the answer was known to all watching.

‘Cornelius Fudge’

‘I have ended my questions, and found you guilty’ the glass in the sky trembled, as if excited to rain down and reduce the woman to slivers of flesh and torn muscle.

Lighting flashed in the sky.

‘Under Ancient Law, I call upon the Triple Goddess to judge you of your sins’ Harry’s voice took on an older quality, a deeper, more guttural note that felt as if the very Earth spoke through him.

The glass that had been suspended up until this point fell, speedy and sharp in it’s decent. Yet it did not hit the woman.

It melted, coalescing into a ring of pure _magic_ around her.

It shone gold, and the oldest of runes appeared around it’s ring.

Those who would look back at this memory in a pensive, would find the runes to be impossible to recall.

Harry’s form seemed to darken and shimmer, and many could swear that where there was once one Harry, there now looked to be three – three sharing a singular form.

His eyes shone gold, as did the ring of glass, and Umbridge screamed.

It was not a girly scream, nor one of fear or suffering.

It was one of destruction – of complete and utter pain that it eclipses every other feeling, tinging even her happiest memories with it’s bitter taste of anguish.

Harry seemed to become one again, and the ring of magical glass shattered – falling into dust onto the pitch.

Blood had dripped from her eyes, ears, and nose as she trembled on the pitch.

‘Magic has striped you of your gift; may you experience the bigotry you gave unto others’ Harry said, turning away from the woman.

‘After all, your only a muggle now’ he said, no sympathy in his voice as he pulled the cloak from his pouch.

It swirled in the air before settling on his shoulders, it’s hood marking his invisibility once again.

The day of the Righteous Storm was over.

**Author's Note:**

> This is only a one shot, but I might be tempted to write this into a longer work - i just had to get the idea on paper, plus I always like duels where more than Expelliamus is used smh.


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